Cartographer
by Neomeneomine
Summary: Spock has a fascinating encounter on a San Fransisco subway. No pairings. Chapters one and two have been rewritten.
1. Emergency

A/N: This was a oneshot that grew huge, so I broke it into two, then three, different chapters. I'm rewriting the entire story now because the ending that I'd planned doesn't at all match the characters, and my writing has improved since I typed these chapters the first time.

Floccitis and caltracine are my own inventions.

.bdobd.

The subways of San Francisco were built in the 2140s. They were a totally logical expenditure of funds: an inexpensive public transportation system was well known to aid economic growth.

The system had been kept in excellent conditions for the majority of its existence. The _Narada_ Incident had altered this state, however, as funds had been diverted to the rebuilding of the areas around the Academy, whose population had increased dramatically after Nero's well-publicized attack.

Spock had used the subway infrequently during his residency. They were known for being loud and of strong odor, which was especially unpleasant to his more sensitive ears and nose.

The_ Enterprise_ had landed in The City – as here it was called – for repairs, and Admiral Pike had requested a report on the time it took for cadets in residence on the edge of the city to travel to the Academy grounds. There had been too many excuses of tardiness attributed to the now dismal conditions of the subways.

Spock had been volunteered for duty by an anonymous source. He suspected Doctor McCoy, and was preparing an argument for the man when the woman next to him coughed heavily.

She was Andorian, dressed in a suit and shoes with low heels. A businesswoman, if current Terran stereotypes were to be held valid. She was clearly ill, and should not be traveling.

The woman coughed again. Spock turned away from her – most people did not react positively to his observations of them, especially when ill – and looked out the window of the train car. The sub-bay tunnel walls rushed past behind the graffiti scratched polymer.

Next to the doors was a yellow sign that gave direction in case of sudden violent illness. 'Do NOT pull the emergency brake,' it read. It would slow any efforts of transport to a medical facility; it was quite reasonable.

But beneath it was a note designed purely for emotional comfort: 'If you are sick, do not worry. You will not be left alone.'

Such a sign would not be posted on the new Vulcan transportations lines. Such a reassurance would be too illogical. Help could be assumed from the very existence of the message. If help were not to be given, no directions for locating assistance would be posted.

The woman coughed again. She was clearly ill. It was possible that her work did not allow for the accumulation of days absent due to illness. It was possible that she did not realize she was ill until she after she had promised to be present at some function.

It was possible she was not going to work at all, but to a formal leisure activity, a conference of some kind. All was possible.

But the woman was sick.

Spock shifted uncomfortably as she shifted her breathing to inhale through her mouth. Others were in the process of attempting – and failing – to unobtrusively shift away from her.

It was a genetically encoded instinct in most species to shy away from those in poor health. The chromosomes did not 'care' for morals or feelings, unless they aided procreation, in which case they 'cared' very much. To obtain an illness from a creature that could be avoided was not logical, to a gene.

The walls of the tunnel continued to flee the subway train. This was an unusually long daily commute. An hour on the L line, Northbound, to the Southbound Q line at the Westborough station (left hand track, right was Northbound according to Kirk's customarily haphazard directions), and the R line to Alameda…

The train car rocked and the Andorian leaned so more of her weight was on the pole she gripped for balance. It was crowded at this hour; few could sit. Those that did were viewed with a kind of temporary dislike, a jealousy that they, the select few, could rest their feet, while the remainder had to make do on their now aching limbs.

The yellow sign was almost hidden behind a senior Bolian man. He gripped a shopping bag filled with only umbrellas. Most were the same shade of pink. Some were blue.

'You will not be left alone.'

The woman coughed again.

The Bolian man moved his pack. The lower half of the sign, the half with its comforting reassurances, was obscured.

The woman rested her forehead on the pole, most probably attempting to cool it somewhat. It was a common behavior amongst humans who were unwell. In Vulcans it was a sign of true illness: a Vulcan's body requested warmth when fighting an invader.

The Andorian's antennae were waving slightly. She was very, very ill. It would be another quarter hour to her residence if she were to vacate at the upcoming stop, but as the majority of buildings in that area were of businesses, she was more likely to have to wait three quarters of an hour, to arrive at Alameda.

'You will not be left alone.'

"Madam, are you in need of any assistance?"

The woman jerked as if Spock had shocked her, as opposed to addressing her. She looked blearily to him, and he noted dispassionately that she had a freckle on her upper lip.

"What?"

"I have – You appear to me to be ill. Are you in need of assistance?"

She squinted at him in disbelief. "Me?"

Illness often clouded the mind, rendering its hosts incapable of easy comprehension. "Yes. Is there any way I could help you?"

A blink. Another. She clearly had no idea of how to respond.

Spock decided to give her an example; it was possible that she did not know of what he was offering. It would be an unfortunate situation, if true. "Do you require escort to a medical office? Or some funds, to purchase pharmaceuticals?"

"You're not seriously asking, are you?"

Her question was unexpected, and her voice was rasped from coughing. "I am. Do you require assistance? I am prepared to provide some. I have no pressing engagements."

He began to consider that one of the symptoms of her illness was dry eyes. She certainly blinked enough. Then she stood straighter and looked him up and down. The impression _(illogical)_ was given of her circling him, emptying his pockets and reviewing his morals, from her position next to him at the train's post.

She did not find him wanting, apparently. She nodded slowly, cautiously. "Can you… help me get to my drugstore? I don't live in a good neighborhood…"

He nodded as her sentence trailed off. It was a favor that would have no effect on his report; it may even strengthen it.

"I have no reason to object. Where is your pharmacy?"

She obviously did not fully trust him. "It's on Park Avenue… The FPC?"

"Very well. Shall we exit at the next station, then?"

"No."

He looked to her in query. "Why? Is it not closer?"

She shook her head. "We'd have to walk through the homeless area. And it's an easier walk from the Kappa station; the sidewalks are better around there."

The woman seemed slightly empowered by her superior knowledge of the area. Her confidence made her seem younger (illogical); it was apparent suddenly that she was not more than two decades past birth. Spock cocked his head curiously. "Is there something particularly distasteful about the homeless' residences?"

Her eyes widened and she motioned an empathetic negative with her hands. "No, no, it's not like that! There's just this truce: We don't come into their houses, they don't come into ours."

"Fascinating."

Her lips twitched in mirth. "I didn't know that Vulcans actually said that."

It was better that she was pleased. She appeared healthier then, more like the Andorians that Spock had previously encountered. "We are not restricted to one particular dialect."

"I didn't know that Vulcans had dialects, I thought it was all one big one," she said.

Spock looked away. "Now, yes, there is less diversity."

She gasped in horror. Or, she attempted to, the sound more closely resembled a wheeze. "By gods, I'm so sorry, I forgot! I'm really, really sorry –!"

"It is of little consequence –," 

"No, it's not." Her determination was not unlike Jim's, "It's not alright, it was wrong, and I'm sorry." She left little room for argument.

The train car suddenly ceased its forward movement and the woman nearly fell. Spock caught her carefully by the elbow to steady her. She looked to him gratefully.

Some of the passengers exiting glanced curiously at him while passing. Why they did so was difficult to fathom, while Vulcans were uncommon here –

No. Vulcans were uncommon everywhere. With less than ten thousand of the species alive, they were an endangered species.

The woman seemed galvanized by their attention. She made a point of staring every one in the eye as they left. It was an expression of challenge, but Spock could not figure out what for. There was naught to protect.

A man in a sports coat caught Spock's arm as he exited. He was carrying a briefcase and a ruffled newspaper, which he'd been reading for the duration of the ride. "I'd just like to say how great it is to see some good old-fashioned decency around here," he stated, "it's so hard to come by."

Spock was tempted to ask why, if he was such a fan of 'decency', he did not practice it himself, but did not speak. He simply nodded.

The woman did as well. He had no idea why. Possibly, as the one assisted, she was also part of being 'decent'? As the one helped? She coughed heavily again; it appeared that the attacks were brought on by stress.

The man in the sports coat with the newspaper and briefcase left. The doors hesitated before closing with a mechanized 'ding'. Spock waited for the usual announcement of the next station from the train's speakers, and then remembered that none would be forthcoming, as all 'unnecessary electronics' had been disconnected in an effort to save money.

The subway car started again with an unpleasant jolt, and Spock moved his hand to the woman's shoulder blade to assist in her rather faulty balance. She looked to him in brief suspicion, but relaxed as he did continued to do nothing inappropriate.

"So, what's your name? Did you tell me, and I forgot, or we never got around to it."

"We never exchanged such information. I am Spock, of the house of Sarek."

The woman spun from her position facing the window to stare intently at his face. Spock raised his hands to shoulder height, concerned that she would overbalance herself. "No. Way. You are _not_ Commander Spock."

It was a common reaction at first, disbelief. "Indeed, I am Spock."

She gaped at him. Some of the other passengers did as well. "What is your name?" he asked.

She drew away from his face and flushed, guilty. "Sorry, that was really rude, wasn't it? I'm Hallelujah."

Spock blinked. It was not a name he had ever encountered. She laughed, clearly embarrassed, at his reaction. He was about to apologize for his socially unacceptable non-response when she interrupted his intentions. "I know, right? My mom was a Christian convert. Just call me Glory, everyone does."

He bowed his head in apology. "I did not mean to insult your title. It was an unacceptable reaction, and I apologize. What would you prefer for me to call you?"

She smiled at him. "_Glory._ I don't even answer to Hallelujah anymore."

Spock nodded, and there was a pleasant lull in the conversation. The subway rocked softly as it sped beneath the streets of California. Glory coughed violently.

"Has your condition deteriorated? What illness do you possess?"

Glory waved in what was intentioned to be a soothing manner as she bent nearly double, hacking. "It's just a cold…" Spock straightened her as best he could, so she could grip the post and have a hand to her mouth without falling to the floor.

"This is a very serious cold. How long have you had the illness?"

"A week or so, I'm not contagious, just miserable…"

She wheezed softly through her nose. "How long have you had symptoms of this severity?"

"Less than a week. It was fine when I was actually contagious, 'cause I was asleep, mostly, but I went to work today and it wasn't a very good idea…"

Glory was breathing heavily and with obvious difficulty. "Are you having issues catching your breath? Are you in pain?"

"I'm getting enough air, it just hurts to have it go down my throat." She grinned wanly at him. "I get it in rushes. Fine one minute, the next…" She indicated herself. "This. It sucks, but it's not deadly."

Spock had the impression that his displeasure could be observed from his expression, and worked to project neutrality. "Fatality is not the only factor in the comparative severity of an illness. Also included is suffering."

Glory straightened hastily. "I wouldn't say that I'm _suffering_, this just sucks."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

She huffed a laugh. Spock stared pointedly at a human knitting in a seat. The person looked up, saw him, started guiltily, and speedily packed the yarn being knotted and stood. Glory looked to him in amusement, and he guided her into the chair.

"That's really not necessary, it's passed…"

"You are ill. You should not be standing for such extended periods of time."

Glory rolled her eyes but said nothing. Another silence stretched on.

Glory shifted uneasily in the seat. She was clearly very bored. Unoccupied, her attention would most probably turn to her own state of health, resulting in a negative emotional state. Distraction would be beneficial.

"What is your work?"

"Hmm?" She looked to him in tired askance. "Oh, I'm temping at a construction contractor."

"Do you enjoy it?"

She snorted contemptuously. "No. I hate it. It's boring as hell."

Spock considered this carefully. "What do you enjoy?"

Glory looked at him curiously. "What do I _enjoy_?" She settled back more comfortably into her seat. "Huh. 'S been a while since someone asked." She looked at the ceiling. "What do I like…"

She refocused on an apparently random bit of the pole Spock was holding. She tilted her head slowly from one side to the other, as if to get the full range of perspectives that the post had to offer. "What _do_ I like?"

She looked to him. "I have no idea. It's been so long." Glory appeared displeased by this fact. She quickly brightened. "I know. You tell me what you like, and I'll get my ideas from that."

Spock hesitated a moment before answering. "…I… enjoy," _(illogical)_, "I enjoy performing experiments. I enjoy the knowledge that I have completed my assigned tasks to the best of my ability. I enjoy being correct in my statements –,"

Glory grinned as she interrupted, "Well, everyone likes that."

"No." Glory cocked her head in clear surprise.

"Who doesn't like being right?"

"The captain."

She grinned. "Ah, the famous Captain Kirk."

She stated this as if it was all there was to know of Jim. "There is more to the captain than the fact that he is famous."

Glory shrugged. "'S all I know."

Spock had to make a conscious effort to restrain a physical manifestation of his displeasure. "What do you know then? The captain is my stated area of expertise."

"Is it really?" she asked, amused.

"Yes. It is my duty to know my captain, and to judge his actions accordingly. It is essential to my work."

"Huh." She crossed her arms in contemplation. "Never thought of it that way."

"What do you enjoy knowing?"

She was clearly surprised. "What do I enjoy _knowing_?"

"You have no stated preferences towards what you do. What knowledge do you enjoy?"

Glory blinked at him, then relaxed with the determined ease of one who has been posed a question of worth. "What do I enjoy knowing…"

She had to mull for a while before straightening with a happy snap of the fingers. "I know! I liked telling you that there was a better way to get to the store. I like knowing where my stuff is."

"Are you displeased when a person is able to prove you wrong?"

"What are you, kidding?" She looked at him as though mad. "I love it. Who wouldn't want to know how to get somewhere cheaper? Or faster? Or where the better bagel is?"

"So you enjoy the knowledge of your area."

"Yep. My spot in the world." She wriggled backwards into the plastic seat, pleased with herself. And not fighting to breathe.

"Are you interested in the trivia of the areas of your neighborhood?"

She was quiet for a moment. "… Sorta. Not really. I like knowing what's useful _now_, you know? Things that I can use _now_."

Spock processed this quietly. The train was actually very silent. He hadn't realized that they were the only two talking.

The human – a woman, he observed, of indeterminate age with a hairstyle that did not suit her – who had previously occupied the chair that Glory currently possessed spoke nervously. "If you like giving directions… Can you tell me how to get somewhere?" 

"I like giving directions?" Glory seemed surprised by the observation. "I do, don't I. How odd." She focused her attention back to the woman. "Where do you wanna get to?"

"Palanquin Hall, but the map I have…"

Glory stood shakily and Spock went to assist her. "You don't need to get up, it's really –,"

"No, no, it's fine," Glory interrupted. It seemed to be a habit of hers. She groaned sympathetically when she saw the woman's map. "_Oiii_. You used DirectMe. You don't want to use that; it sucks at subways. Gives you the wrong –,"

She pointed at a row of text, laughing scratchily with the happy flush of success. "Here, you see?" Spock had never heard someone cut off themself before; it was a very interesting phenomena. "It says here to take _L,_ you wanted to take _J_. Now you're on the wrong side of the bridge."

The woman was distressed by this apparently unwelcome information. "But how do I fix that?"

"It's _easy_," Glory said reassuringly, "all you have to do is get off at the next stop and change to an Eastbound R. Go three stops, get off and turn left on Abercorn. I'm pretty sure it's on the right side, but I may be wrong: Just look for the signs that say 'Palanquin Hall', you'll be fine."

The woman had begun to scribble down Glory's rapid directions on a PADD, and finished a few moments after the Andorian did. She looked to Glory with a kind of awe, making the Andorian blush a cheerfully dark blue.

The sudden rush of blood brought back her cough. She again crumpled in upon herself, her lungs working to rid themselves of liquid that did not seem to exist.

The knitting woman cooed in concern. Spock settled a hand across the ill woman's abdomen, hoping to keep it relatively relaxed.

It was not a helpful time for the train to stop moving, or to open its doors.

But it was not as unpleasant an experience as Spock would have otherwise predicted. The passengers actually seemed frozen, and stayed remarkably still, except for one man who stood and held the doors.

Glory was wheezing again, laboriously through both her mouth and nose. "'She need a doctor?" someone asked.

"I'm _fine_," Glory insisted raspily, "I'll be _fine_." The stress of it was making her agitated, and it was clear that she was about to go into another coughing fit –

The Bolian man from the corner stood slowly walked to the obviously seriously ill Andorian. He looked to Spock for permission for… something, and Spock found himself nodding in the affirmative.

The man pressed a thumb to the base of Glory's spine. She suddenly stopped hacking and drew in slow, painful breaths. "She's an floccitic."

The man's voice was wispy and insubstantial. "I have it too. Those Christian churches, the wood they use… It's not good for alien lungs. M' parents were converts also."

Glory drew in air noisily and with great effort. "'Haven't had… An attack… In years," she gasped.

Spock stared suspiciously at the Bolian. "Such symptoms are not common of asthma."

"Not in humans. 'S different with us. Got its own name and everything."

Spock bent down to peer into Glory's face. She caught the look and smiled wanly. He narrowed his eyes. "You were going to refill an inhaler."

She grinned, for a moment. Jim did the same when he was very injured on an away mission: the more serious his injuries, the more likely he was to be beamed aboard grinning. "The cold… I got congested… I ran out of caltracine yesterday, I was late and couldn't get to the drugstore –,"

The man holding the door looked extremely concerned. "I had a sister with asthma; it's an e.r. visit if she has a full-blown attack."

Spock frowned slightly at Glory. He did not want to bear witness to a 'full-blown' attack, if this was a light one. She should not have gone to work is such a condition. "Where is the nearest medical facility?"

"I'm gonna call 9-1-1, there's no hospitals near here," someone down the train responded.

"I require assistance in getting her out of the station, she should not walk in this condition."

"I'm _fine_."

"No you are _not_." It was about as close as Spock ever came to yelling. "You are seriously ill and shall be treated as such." He readdressed the train's passengers, "Can someone clear a path so I may carry her out of the station? I am only enough to do one task, not both."

"I'll do it!" a man called. Spock could hear a 9-1-1 responder speaking to one of the many someone.

"Are you ready?" Spock asked Glory. She shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. He took that as consent and lifted her; she made displeased noises but did not protest.

A human man, approximately thirty in a plaid shirt, rushed out of the car and began to shout for people to clear the way, for an ill person was 'coming through'. He did so in fewer words, however.

Most of the passengers disembarked after Spock-carrying-Glory did, whispering their hopes of fortune and comfort as they left to continue about their lives. The someone who'd made – was making – the emergency call followed the Vulcan, keeping the person on the other end informed of Glory's condition. The someone had a very… earnest voice.

"Sleepy? _No_ ma'am, she looks _pissed_, to tell you the truth… Well, she's being _carried_, you see, she didn't want that, she wanted to walk…"

The someone – Orion of four decades, holding a cellular phone to her ear – turned to Spock to tell him that, "She says we made the right choice, 'that was a good idea'," and continued to talk.

"Oh, I was talking to the man carrying her… Oh, no, he's fine, he's a Vulcan, he'll be alright. They're _very_ strong." She said this last with the air of someone tutoring a high schooler of low intelligence.

Spock easily scaled the stairs as the human continued to shout for pedestrians to 'Clear the way' and the Orion narrated the ascent as a sportscaster would: "Annnd… We're about halfway up now, and… no, no, there was a _very _nice man on the train who's clearing a path and– I know, it _was _nice of him, wasn't it! And now… _Ooh!_ I see the _ambulance_, we're…"

The medical responders took Glory, who was looking irritated at it all, and put her on a rolling bed. They tied an air mask over her mouth and nose and rolled her back into the ambulance.

One of them poked his head out the back of the ambulance. "'You a relative?"

Spock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, no, he was rather obviously _Vulcan_, Glory was clearly _not_, it would be extremely unlikely for –, "We are not related, no."

"We're gonna need your number then, so we can call you later."

"What for?" A recounting of the events was already being transcribed from the human who cleared the path and the Orion who'd made the emergency call.

The technician looked at him quizzically. "Don't you want to know how she's doing?"

Spock hesitated before nodding. "…Yes. I would greatly appreciate that."

.bdobd.


	2. Tattoos

A/N: Rewritten.

Glory makes a face in here that I visualized as something like: O.O

And the 'textbook psychology' that Spock uses is a technique that's recommended for dealing with angry people or children: You're to listen to a person's complaint, repeat what they say, and then label their emotions. It works quite well, actually.

Beber is Spanish for 'to drink'.

.bdobd.

Glory's condition, while serious, had proved an easy ailment to overcome. She had made a full recovery after three days. She was thankful for Spock's interest in her health, and had left a communications code for him to use, if-he-so-desired.

The hospital technician's report was precise, detailed, and left the half Vulcan feeling oddly bereft of some important piece of information. He was unable to pinpoint the source of his unease, even after an unusually extended meditation period.

It had been the first such period that he had preformed in a dangerously long time. It was beginning to affect his emotional states. The negotiations were progressing in a negative fashion: If they were to proceed in the manner that they had, the Federation would soon lose a minimum of three member planets, instead of gaining two, as was the stated goal.

When he reported to the Admiralty about the subway systems – who, after reading, 'agreed' that the tardy students were to be 'sympathized with'; a statement which was not the thesis of nor _in_ his report – he went to find Jim, who was more experienced in these matters.

Jim was not in his stated residence. Because Jim was at the negotiations.

He had been reassigned the mission after an abbreviated shore leave of ten days. So reported Admiral Pike to the confused Vulcan.

Spock was left standing outside of one of the campus's many high-status dorms, waiting for something he could not predict to solve a problem he had not yet defined.

He pivoted on his heel and walked briskly to the Academy. He could participate in a class or oversee an experiment there. Both would be more efficient uses of time than pursuing his problems of Glory Hallelujah.

There was naught for him to do at the Academy. All cadets were in class and all experiments were fully staffed.

Also, he had been put on official shore leave by Admiral Pike. The man had not consulted him before doing so. Shore leave made all facilities that were labeled 'Starfleet Only' off-limits to him, because he was no longer on official Starfleet payrole. He had been allowed to sleep in an Academy dorm because he had no where else to go, but he was apparently to be left entirely unoccupied for the majority of his stay on Earth.

Which was how he had excused his eventual call to Glory to himself.

"I'm so happy you called you have no idea."

Glory said this all on one inhalation of breath, as if, in pausing, she would accidentally cue Spock to dash away from the communications units.

"Is there a specific reason for your pleasure?" A human – male, of two point seven decades, in a jacket that did not quite fit him – started and looked to the Vulcan. He leaned slightly away from the alien, as if he had said something explicit.

Spock reviewed his previous query.

Why…?

Ah. Yes.

That had not been an optimally worded question.

Did the man really think he had said _that_ in a café?

Glory was answering his question. "Yep. I had spare time in the hospital – I didn't _need _to be carried, by the way, the _doctor_ said so – so I was going over that thing you asked me, about what I liked? I quit my job."

"What?"

The Andorian woman flinched slightly, and Spock again reviewed his query.

"I meant not to state a negative opinion towards the action, but was making what is a common emotional gesture of surprise." Spock completed a ritual pause. "So I have been told."

Glory laughed. She was still slightly embarrassed-or-guilty over her statement, but seemed partially soothed. "I know, right? I've set up a little booth in my corner market, I tell tourists why they're idiots for using DirectMe. And I get paid."

"Are you… enjoying your employment?"

Spock sipped cautiously from his tea while Glory contemplated his query. It was well flavored, but no one had informed the shop that Vulcan spiced tea was not to be served in anything with a lid, to prevent condensation from forming on the underside of the top.

"I think I am. Isn't that funny? I really don't know." She looked carefully at him. "Where are you, anyway?"

"I am currently located in the drinks distributor Beber, seated at a rented communications unit. It is near to the service counter and next to the café's front window."

"Why?"

Spock blinked. "To what is your query directed?"

Glory leaned forward. "Why are you at that _particular_ store? What's good about it?"

"It is the café closest to the Academy that serves Vulcan spice tea at its proper temperature and consistency."

Glory seemed to dive for a PADD and stylus. Illogical. They were right next to her. "What's that address?"

"It is located at the intersection of Hampton Street and Yesterday's Avenue. When exiting the Academy, it is on the left side of the street. It is near the traffic light, which is in need of electrical assistance, for the green and red bulbs appear to be cracked."

Spock studied the Andorian carefully. "Is such detail sufficient?"

"How much is their most popular something, and what are they famous for," she asked with a business-like determination. Logical. Such knowledge was her business.

"Their most popular drink is a decaffeinated latte of medium size, which is four credits. As I do not drink coffee I cannot attest to the quality of the beverage. Locally they are known for their cappuccinos. The morning baristas are reputed to draw… _figures_… in the steamed milk foam."

"…Excellent!" Glory beamed up at him after completing her transcription. "You never know what someone will ask. This morning a native asked me how to sneak into the Academy!" She began to laugh.

"It is not a feat of huge complexity."

She stopped laughing. "You're kidding."

Spock raised an eyebrow in a manner that Jim had once described as 'regal' and Doctor McCoy had once described as… something that Jim had later translated to 'officious'.

Glory smiled with self-deprecation. "Right. Vulcans don't kid. Forgot, sorry."

The Vulcan in question shook his head. "No apology is necessary, for no offense was taken."

Glory grinned again. "I like that line. Do you mind if I steal it?"

"…I admit some interest in the mechanics of such an endeavor."

A surprised giggle escaped her. "You're funny, did anyone tell you?"

It was not a pleasant question. "Yes. My mother, who is dead, and my Captain, who is now negotiating with a species that does not want to be negotiated with."

Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh my god, I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't know –!"

"No, the fault is mine, I reacted with –,"

"Totally within reason, that was a _stupid_ question, I'm so, so sorry –,"

"No, no offense was –,"

"I'm really, really –,"

"_Glory Hallelujah._"

Glory ceased speaking. "Sorry." She made herself smaller in her chair and looked generally pitiful.

"No. I apologize for my illogical actions."

"I –,"

"May I shift topics?"

Glory blushed, making Spock stiffen unconsciously. The last time she had done such a thing, medical professionals were needed to prevent serious harm. "Yeah. Sorr – go ahead."

"How has business been? Have you been able to support yourself?"

Glory nodded enthusiastically. "Mm hmm! Things have been really great; I was really surprised. I thought it'd just be an in-between job until I found another, but this is just enough to get by on, and it's growing."

She hummed happily to herself. "I might even need to get an _employee_ one of these days…"

He nodded slowly. "Directions are of much need to anyone not native to an area. Do you only work from your corner market, or also other places?"

The Beber's tea was very palatable. "I'm starting to work from the street, too. A lot of people in my neighborhood are Andorian, so I've been writing 'cartographer' in Andoran on my cheek and puttering about the area."

Spock's eyebrow rose again. "Cartography is mapmaking, not giving directions."

"Yes, but there isn't a character for 'directions giver', now is there?"

"There is."

"What?" Glory crossed her arms in a display of obstinacy and disbelief. "Liar."

"In Vulcan, the word is _alh'karav_. They were nomadic guides of the desert who could direct you to the nearest town or oasis."

Spock cocked his head to the side in thought. "I do not believe they were often called upon to recommend coffee shops, however."

Glory had quieted to listen with interest. It was a confusing, but common phenomenon. Spock had been concerned when he had compared the noise levels of the classes he taught at the Academy to other professors', but was told that, in his case, the silence was a sign of absorption, not sleeping, as was more common in Advanced Xenochemistry, EarlyBird period.

"What does that character look like in Vulcan?"

"Formal or informal?"

"Ummm…" Glory tapped her chin with two fingers. Spock worked to ignore that fact that she appeared to be kissing herself, which was a very self-absorbed thing to do. "Informal."

"Directed to a superior or to an inferior?"

She looked to him in exasperated horror. "Good god, there's a difference?"

"Vulcans have never stated that Shi'Kahrian Scholar's Intellectual Dialects were simple."

Now, she just seemed exasperated. "Three modifiers? Really? Three?"

Spock shrugged, making Glory snort softly with surprised mirth. Non-Vulcans never seemed to expect such irreverent gestures from him. Vulcans seemed to expect them much too often. "It is more precise."

"Not very economical."

"Such a trait was not necessary for the title to be accurate."

"_Three_ modifiers?"

"Four, if you believe the implied adjective 'Vulcan' to also be worthy of inclusion."

Glory rolled her eyes. "_Oiiii_. What's 'direction giver' look like? Give me what you think I'll want."

The man in the ill-fitting coat paid only enough attention to absorb Glory's final sentence. This was enough to send him straight to his feet and out the door in under thirty-five seconds: very good time.

Spock unrolled the cardboard insulator that encircled his cup and scrawled the proper hieroglyph on it with a pen. He held it up to the screen.

Glory's engrossment in the writing seemed too great for a passing preoccupation. "Is there any specific reason for your request?"

"I've wanted to get a tattoo for years."

Spock quickly flipped the cardboard face down. "Such is not wise."

Glory frowned at him; she'd not finished with her transcription. "I know a guy. Show me again, I didn't get the bottom half."

"Andorian skin is not receptive to tattooing, especially in the Terran fashion –,"

"What makes you think that I'm gonna do it the human way? You're right, that _would_ be stupid, but –,"

"The risk of infection is pronounced –,"

"Not if the guy doing it knows how to do his job, which he _does_ –,"

"That is your opinion of him, not a stated fact –,"

"It is, actually, he has a degree –,"

"From an Orion academy, I am to assume, Orion tattooing is not safe for Andorians –,"

"No, it's _not _Orion –,"

"But there _is no_ Andorian method of body artistry through injected ink." He had almost raised his voice again. Meditation was very much in order.

He tried to… soften his tone. _(Illogical)._ "You have recently been in need of emergency treatment, a serious infection would not be wise in such a condition."

Glory sighed. "But that won't happen. It'll be fine. I know the person doing it; no one has ever gotten sick."

Spock worked to avoid an emotional facial expression. "I do not know how such a feat would be possible. I do not believe this person's claims of superiority against all known scientific data, and do not believe you should either."

The woman sighed. "No. I believe him. I'll be –,"

"The last time you referenced 'fine' as your physical state, you were, three minutes later, being transported by ambulance."

Glory glared at him. "Shut up."

There was a silence. To fill it, Spock drank more tea. He ran out of tea.

He then was left with the social dilemma of asking to exit a conversation to go do other things, and then to return to said conversation. Even in Vulcan cultures it was considered extremely rude.

It was very palatable tea, however.

He was debating the proper method with which to break social custom when Glory spoke again. "How've you been?"

"I?"

An exceedingly inefficient response. Perhaps the tea was to blame. Surely he did not ask such ridiculous questions often.

"Yes, you, silly. Here I've been nattering on about myself, I haven't even asked what you've been up to. So…?"

"I have been…" What _had_ he done? "I have done naught of significance."

Glory rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. "Please. I'm smarter than that. Really, tell me!"

"No. I really have done nothing."

"Oh, come _on_, I'm not _that_ stupid. You must've done something!"

Her naïve assumption that he must always be doing something important somehow made this a much more emotionally affecting experience. "No. I have done… nothing. At all. I have been able to participate in no labs, been able to complete any paperwork, and have made no social contacts. I am on shore leave, which classifies me as a civilian. I man bunk on Starfleet property, but cannot use any of their resources for myself."

He paused briefly. "Since we last interacted, I have wasted all time allotted looking for something to occupy myself, and failing."

Glory's expression was an interesting: her eyes were wide, and her lips were drawn, but her brows stayed stationary. It produced the effect of a shock and horror so great that mere facial manipulation could not possibly encompass.

"… Oh. You… You really didn't do anything."

"Negative. I… It is apparent now that I rely on my human acquaintances to locate such things for me." It was not a pleasant revelation.

"Well, god!" Glory now seemed rather offended, "Why didn't you call me immediately! I was right here the whole time, I mean, I thought the _lag_ was you being horrifically busy with something… _amazing_, I don't know!"

Oh, _no_. Such emotionally charged questions were the reason that he often worked to avoid emotional species, there was _no_ right answer. Perhaps some textbook psychology? "Why did not I call you immediately?"

"Yes!" Glory stormed, "It took you _days!_"

"It took me days? To call you?"

_"Yes!"_

"That must have been extremely irritating."

Glory subsided slightly. Spock was… _fascinated_, he had not expected this to work. "Yes, it was."

"I apologize for my indecision, it was not… fair, to you. You deserved an immediate response."

The Andorian calmed totally. Spock was stunned; that emotional psychology paper would have to be reviewed. "It's alright. Sorry for blowing up at you like that."

_Fascinating._

"No apology is needed, for –,"

"No offense was taken," Glory completed with a smile. "I _like_ that line." She hummed with pleasure. "Vulcan greetings are pretty too. 'Live long and prosper'. 'Peace and long life'. Simple, and to the point."

Spock nodded slowly. "…Indeed, they have been referenced as such."

Glory hummed again. "Is the writing as pretty as the phrases?"

Spock felt his expression 'flatten'. "I will not give you the character."

"Wh_y-yyy?_" The Vulcan flinched as she whined; it grated on his ears. "It's not like you're ordering me to get a tattoo, I just want _reference_, that's all."

"I shall not enable you to do so."

Glory sent him a sly smile. "Even if you don't show me, I'll still get that tattoo. I'll just write in the rest from memory –,"

"You will not be able to recreate the character," Spock said stiffly.

"So? No one around here can read Vulcan, they'll believe what I –,"

"Such would not be wise."

Glory had shifted her attention to the PADD she was holding, clearly attempting to recreate the character. She was much more likely to write '_akl-kasart_' than '_ahl-karav_', and _kasart_ was _prostitute_; if there were someone who knew the shape of the word then they might mistake Glory for such a –

"Here." Spock flipped the cardboard up so that his handwriting was again visible to the determined Andorian. "Do not complain to me if such an endeavor finds you again ill."

"No problem!" Glory chirped. She set about copying the correct hieroglyph.

Spock was arguing with himself. No, debating. Arguing implied negative emotion.

Surely this was not wise. But, if she was set on getting such a procedure preformed, did it actually affect her health what character was to be imbedded within her skin? Was it not better to provide her with accurate information?

"Thank you!" she chirruped. Spock did his best not to frown at her. It was a task of considerable difficulty, and Glory bowed submissively. "I appreciate it."

"I still do not believe your plan to be wise."

"I know. Thanks for caring."

Spock resisted the urge to groan. She was almost as bad as the captain. "Are you planning to remain in this city, or are you planning to expand to other towns?"

"Well, eventually, I want to train some people to do other cities. So there'll be a Chicago one, a New York one, a Shras one, a… What's New Vulcan's capital?"

"Shar-Tukh."

"And a Shar-Tukh one, also."

"What is your business' title?"

Glory seemed surprised. "It's title?"

"It's name. If you were to give out directions, to what name would a customer owe funds?"

"Umm." The Andorian seemed embarrassed. "Well, I mean, people don't usually write five credit checks…"

Spock looked carefully to her. "Your business does have a name, does it not?"

"Not… really, yet. I couldn't really think of a good one."

"_Ik Surak._"

"Huh?"

Spock had not realized he had spoken aloud. "It is of naught."

Glory narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What did you say."

"It is of naught."

"What. Did. You. Say?"

"It is of naught."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Glory threw up her hands. "If it doesn't matter, why won't you tell me?"

"I do not wish to waste your time."

Glory's expression did not exhibit positive emotion. "I cannot believe you just said that."

Spock blinked. How…?

Glory sensed his confusion and shook her head. "Don't think about it too hard, you'll hurt yourself."

This did nothing to aid Spock. What did she mean?

"Look, really, forget –,"

"How is such possible? If you did not believe in my statement, you would not have responded in the manner that you did. How could I harm myself with thought? How is such possible? I –,"

"Spock! Shut up!"

The Vulcan flinched slightly and quieted himself.

"Some things aren't meant to make sense."

Illogical. "That is illogical."

Glory stared at him, obviously displeased. "Neither's you not answering my question."

"Yes it is."

She looked to him with clear disbelief. "How."

"You would be negatively emotionally impacted."

Glory blinked. "What?"

Spock tried to explain, "You would have been emotionally effected in a negative manner, such harm is not to be caused without reason, therefore, it was logical to avoid such confrontation."

Glory blinked at him again. "…You were trying not to hurt my feelings?"

"…That is another way of phrasing my answer, yes."

The Andorian blinked again. Then, her eyes filled with tears. "That's… so _sweet._"

Oh. Oh no. This… This was not good.

"I meant not to attempt to convey romantic feelings, nor effect you emotionally in such a –,"

"You're such a _sweetheart._"

Spock was _horrified_. Terrible things had happened before, because of such misunderstandings. "I really do not believe that you –,"

"_Thank _you."

Spock heard a yelp – it was the proper name for such a sound, that could not be denied – that seemed to originate from him and worked to suppress his terror. "Most probably there has been a sort of misunderstanding –,"

"You seriously need to be hugged. Like, right now. 'Cause I can't do it through the screen, and you deserve it." Glory frowned, and then brightened. "I know! You can come down to my place. I'll do it there."

Spock looked reflexively to see the reaction of the man in the poorly fitted coat, and then remembered that the man had left. "I do not believe that to be wise."

She pouted. "Why?"

"… Such an invitation…"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Are you going to rape me?"

The Vulcan stiffened in offense. "Negative."

"Beat me?"

"Negative."

"Rob me?"

"Negative."

"Kill me?"

"Never."

Glory smiled. "Then why should I be worried? Or you, for that matter?"

Spock surpressed a frown. "… Very well. Where is your residence?"

.bdobd.


End file.
